Price Of Wrong Deeds

Chapter 1

Street fights where people suddenly start cutting pieces of their own flesh and sharing it with each other have been reported. To uncover the truth, a group from the newspaper followed clues from the deceased's diary into the depths of a remote and mysterious mountain, White Mountain.

"They ate what they shouldn't have, saw what they shouldn't have, and now they must pay the price."

[1]

A recent news story sparked heated discussions among the public.

On a busy street, at an outdoor food stall, two men pulled out small knives and began cutting pieces of their own flesh to share with each other. In the end, they bled to death, having cut off all their flesh. According to the stall owner, the two men seemed completely normal when they first arrived.

Because their deaths were so horrifying, the police quickly arrived at the scene and removed the bodies to avoid scaring more people. This incident has been widely discussed in society, and some bystanders even recorded the scene. However, any videos uploaded online were quickly taken down.

Upon investigation, it was discovered that one of the men was a scientist and the other a photographer. They had no known connection to each other, except that both had recently joined an expedition deep into White Mountain.

Not long after this incident, another pair of individuals were found on the street, cutting pieces of their flesh to share with each other. The scene was equally gruesome, and no one was willing to describe it in detail. These two also bled to death after cutting off all their flesh.

This time, the individuals were an adventurer and an investor. Like the first pair, their only connection was their participation in the recent White Mountain expedition.

This finally caught the attention of the authorities to the White Mountain expedition. The expedition wasn't a secret and the local tourism department knew about it.

The group consisted of seven people: a writer, a journalist, a scientist, his student, a photographer, an adventurer, and an investor. After returning, everything seemed normal. However, now only three of them remained: a journalist, a writer, and the scientist's student, Brodie.

Brodie had completely disappeared during the expedition, and his fate remained unknown. The police immediately put the remaining two under strict protection to prevent them from following in the footsteps of the others. They appeared completely normal, talking and eating normally. Even professional psychologists couldn't find anything wrong with them.

Specialists were sent to question them about their experiences. However, despite being questioned several times, the two refused to speak about their time in White Mountain, treating it as a taboo. When asked about White Mountain, they spoke only with reverence, calling it a sacred place and saying nothing else.

One day, the two suddenly disappeared from their guarded room. They were later found at an outdoor food stall. The writer had already bled to death, but the journalist, Cayson, who was overweight, still clung to life.

[2]

The last time I saw Cayson was in the hospital. I was there on behalf of the newspaper to visit him. He lay on the bed, extremely weak, struggling to breathe. He opened his eyes to look at me, and I could see that even this small action took all his strength.

Once chubby, his clothes now hung loosely on his skeletal frame. His cheeks were hollow, exposing his teeth, which moved up and down with his labored breathing.

We were good friends and often teamed up to chase stories. I was supposed to go on this expedition. The editor-in-chief got me this chance to join the expedition with prominent figures and gather material for a series of articles. But my father suddenly fell ill, and I had to go back home to take care of him. The assignment was then given to Cayson.

I never thought it would end like this.

He spoke in a barely audible voice, and I could only make out, "They ate what they shouldn't have, saw what they shouldn't have, and now they must pay the price."

When I tried to ask more, he refused to say anything else.

With trembling hands, he put something in my hand. It was a small, stone-like object. I could see he didn't want anyone else to know about it. He only closed his eyes in peace after I put it in my pocket.

That night, the newspaper received a call. Cayson had passed away.

Holding back my grief, I remembered the object Cayson had given me earlier that day. I took it out for a closer look. It wasn't a stone.

It was a piece of bone, carved with intricate patterns that I couldn't make out.